


Fourth of July

by Nitzer



Category: Original Work
Genre: "summer sadness" vibes, F/M, Non graphic self harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, dark themes, implied manipulation in a relationship, like really bad lol, possibly taking advantage of an underaged girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 20:08:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20263825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nitzer/pseuds/Nitzer
Summary: "And I remember feeling things. I remember grass under my feet. I remember your hands. I remember water so cold it burned. I remember sun so hot it burned. But all those feelings left me now. I’m trapped in a concrete wasteland where the temperature never dips below sixty or soars above ninety. I am confined to being numb here."we were fireworks that went off too soon





	Fourth of July

**Author's Note:**

> the soundtrack to being nineteen and nostalgic for something you never had
> 
> tw/cw: self harm, manipulation, suicidal ideation but none are graphic

I was used to overheating in cars—face flushed with tears. I was not used to the cool, night air, passing under dull street lamps. And the night highway reminded me of you. I never figured out why. Cars were always loud, lively, full when I was with you. The air was always muggy and full of lightning bugs. Ice cream dripped down my arm and I chased it with my tongue. Those were summers all the way across the country. It was fall here now. It'd never get _cold_ but it was no longer warm. The air could chill my flushed face. I could wear my sweaters now. Not the one I got from you—that one hangs untouched in my closet. It is too precious to even touch now. It is an irreplaceable relic, surviving from the time I was happy.

All of my memories of you are full of fireflies, the smell of sunscreen, glowsticks and fireworks. You are the embodiment of summer. But I can slot memories of you into any season. The faint stinging doesn’t subside when the nights get longer and the sun stops lingering in my eyes. We spent weeks of summer in a log cabin, surrounded by deer and pine trees. You draped jackets coated in your scent over my damp, sand-covered skin. The AC made the nights artificially cold and we'd huddle under blankets, trading stories and smiles. We did everything in summer. We stole bits from every season to weave a complete year in a couple months. Every season brought me back to you. There was no escape.

And it hurt. The hurt was new. It was interspersed with absolute, emotional numbness. Sometimes I craved things, mostly attention, rarely the searing pain of my own nails but that desire was still there. Mostly it was numb. Mostly it was taking car rides with boys who I tricked into caring about me. And there was the tiniest spark of excitement in making someone care about me. Then like something like the image of dull street lamps would hit me and break me down. It doesn't really matter, though. I was used to leaving stunned and helpless boys I would never call again with an afterimage of my sobbing face.

Right now, I want the searing pain of my own nails, raking over my skin. I want something more. Nails aren't sharp enough. I want you more. I always want the things I can't have. I can ruin the numbness. I can destroy it. And I remember feeling things. I remember grass under my feet. I remember your hands. I remember water so cold it burned. I remember sun so hot it burned. But all those feelings left me now. I’m trapped in a concrete wasteland where the temperature never dips below sixty or soars above ninety. I am confined to being numb here.

"Mikey?" A harsh breath, a moment of pause, a moment to stop myself. I don't. "I think I'm going to kill myself."

Steel is so cold it burns. Scrapes burn. Cuts burn. And hearing your voice always burns. It burns worse than anything I can do to myself.

"...what do you want from me, Chrissy?"

What did I want from you, again? Everything you took away from me. I wanted all my seasons back. I wanted to have a favorite color that you didn't pick again. I wanted my feelings. I wanted my devotion. I wanted a closet free of hidden memories, free of things I needed to keep because of you. I wanted my own light. I wanted my summer back.

"Attention, I guess. That's always what I wanted, right? Just wanted you to look at me."

God, I always wanted him to look at me. When we were shoved into that tiny couch at Brian's house, I always made sure I was nestled next to you. I wanted you to notice that my eyes looked bigger (it was the eyeliner), that my legs looked longer (shorter skirt), that my lips were fuller (lipliner). I wanted you to catch my eyes because they were always wandering over you. And then you did.

"I can't see you over the phone. You gotta talk to me."

I never had to talk to you. You liked it so much better when I was quiet. I did too. I wanted you to tell me what to do. I just wanted to be your baby girl. So when you put your finger to my lips I closed my mouth. And when you pulled your pants down I opened it. My mouth wasn't meant for talking. That was your job.

"Why do you hate me, Mikey? What did I do?"

You had to hate me. All I did was move. You left. You kissed me goodbye and forgot. You never called me from dimly-lit highways to whisper that you wanted me back. You never sent texts to me that were read but never replied to. You didn't have a closet full of things you needed to forget. You had already forgotten. And it was my fault. It was always my fault. I couldn't let you go. I haven't touched your sweatshirt since I hung it in my closet in some desperate attempt to preserve your scent. I dressed exactly the way you said you liked best when I knew you couldn't see it. I wanted to prove I was still your girl. And you just called me your baby girl because that's what I needed to hear. That's what you needed to say to keep me—quiet, complacent, _yours_.

"...I...I don't think you should call me anymore, Chrissy." And then dead air.

Oh. Okay. Okay. That was it. You fixed my problem for me. I couldn't dwell over you this way. But I also couldn't burn myself. I couldn't burn myself like I needed to. I was so numb. There was never anything to feel here. And I just wanted your hands one more time. I just wanted to walk barefoot in grass. I wanted the smell of burning coals. I wanted the grit of sand all over my skin. But you took that from me. You took everything I ever felt. You took everything I wanted. You took my burn. You took the one, solitary feeling I had left.

But metal is cold. Almost cold enough to burn. And the sting of cuts is almost a burn. And I can see all my little veins through my skin because god knows I never let the sun touch it anymore. And maybe I can dig deep enough to burn. So I try. Because you took everything else. The only thing left for me to take is my life.

You won't forget, Mikey. I will haunt you.


End file.
